Chiaroscuro
by allthingsholy
Summary: Jackfic, mid-season 4. "Nobody lives for himself alone."


Title: Chiaroscuro  
Author: all things holy  
Email: allthingsholy(at)yahoo(dot)com  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: Oh, yeah right. Everything important belongs to J.J. and Mrs. Woolf.  
Summary: "Nobody lives for himself alone."—Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf  
A/N: First attempt in this fandom. Big thanks to Lula Bo, my kickass beta, who rocks my world. (And yes, the title happens to coincide with my TWoP name and one of the best Buffy fics ever. But that's mostly coincidental.) Set during the RadioactiveJack days, mid-season 4.

* * *

She will stretch a hand across his chest, nuzzle her nose against his shoulder as she begins to stir. His eyes will be open, dark and unfocused. 

He'll run a hand from her wrist to her elbow, will feel her eyelashes flutter against his skin, know that she's awake now too.

"Jack?" Her voice will sound throaty, rough with sleep. He will only just make out her hand being raised to her face in the dark, imagine her fingering the sleep from her eyes the way she used to.

"Can't sleep," he'll manage. He'll shift his weight on the mattress, pull away his hand from her arm; she's too hot to touch. He'll feel a weight on his chest, an unfamiliar heaviness that sinks deeper with each breath.

"Jack, what's wrong?" She'll pull herself closer to him.

He'll turn, barely see her face in the darkness. His wife, this woman next to him, too young to be Irina, too distant to be Laura; he'll watch her a long moment, see her through the fog behind his eyes.

* * *

He sits at his desk, watches his hand tremble. Through the windows of his office, he sees Sydney pass by, head bent to read a mission report as she walks. Ever the consummate professional, he thinks, and wonders vaguely at the genetics of it all, how much of her is her mother, how much of her is him; how either of them could've produced something so pure. 

He brings his hands to the keyboard; his fingers quiver against the keys. The sight unsettles something deep inside of him, a fear he'd long ago convinced himself he'd been rid of. He can't get used to the feeling of helplessness, has rarely ever known it, has never had to.

The door to his office opens with a muted _swoosh_, a sterilized hospital sound that grates on his ears still, after all these months. APO is too much like a hospital for him to ever be at ease here, as much as he's ever been at ease in the workplace. The lights are far too bright, far too piercing, like the designers didn't know that the things that would be done here are best kept in shadows.

Marshall scurries in, file folder tucked beneath his arm. His eyes are shifty, dart back and forth between the outer office and Jack's steely features.

"Marshall, what is it?" Jack's voice is too loud when he speaks, too guarded, but the look in the younger man's eyes tells him that this is more than a mission inquiry. There's a new fierceness to Marshall, a new boldness that Jack can't help but admire and pity. He has intimate knowledge of the ways this job hardens a man, and the young, eager-to-please technician has been no exception.

"Mr. Bristow, there are a few things I wanted to say and before you tell me to go away, I'm going to tell you that I'm not. Going to. Go away. Yet." There's a shakiness to Marshall's voice, a kind of fear that doesn't ever really fade; still, the determination shows through. "Unless this is a bad time. If it's important, I can maybe come back later, if there's—"

Jack makes a dismissive gesture, waves his hand toward the computer, struggles to keep it steady; he fails. "Actually, Marshall, I'm in the middle of something and—"

"There would be no one else, if you were gone." The words seem to surprise even Marshall, and Jack is momentarily taken aback; he clenches his jaw, steels himself for what he knows will follow. "She's an exceptional agent, sir, I've worked with her for years and she's amazing." Marshall's eyes lower, can't quite seem to meet Jack's unwavering gaze. There are none of the fumbling phrases so typical, none of the stammering and stuttering that characterize his speech; the weight of the words drag Marshall's tone down to one of solemnity, one of reverence. "She needs you to be there. She needs someone on her side, no matter what, and I know there've been issues before, and you two haven't always been close, but—" Marshall pauses, pulls the file from his arm. "There would be no one else, Jack."

There's an intimacy in the moment that's surprisingly familiar, startlingly comforting. It's a strange friendship that's been bred, and Jack's shocked that his first instinct is to trust this man, this continually genuine man, with the things that have plagued him so long, the things that keep him awake at night, contemplating the dark, the future, the past.

* * *

His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpeting. A tactical error, said the agent within. Slipping past security had been disturbingly easy; her syndicate was weaker than ever, she'd loosened her grasp on the world she once ruled. 

Her back was to him, her head held high. He didn't speak, didn't hardly breathe. The things he'd planned to say, the words he'd prepared so carefully, all left him.

"I'd do the same thing, if the situation were reversed." Her voice caught him off-guard. Ever the observant agent, she'd known he was there the minute he'd entered the building. There was no misunderstanding as to why he'd sought her out, no confusing the lengths he'd had to go to find her. She'd resigned herself to this, to taking the blame for a crime she didn't commit, that she'd never think of committing. A part of her knew he understood this; deep inside, she knew he didn't care.

"It's so comforting to know that I have your approval." His voice was cold, barely contained rage hidden beneath an attempt at professionalism. She turned to look at him, saw his face echoing the same buried anger, the same barely repressed violence.

She tilted her head, regarded him silently. He looked older than she remembered, more worn. The cock of his head, the lines of his face; she thought of Sydney. "It doesn't make sense, does it, Jack?"

"There are a multitude of things that don't make sense. This is just the latest." He felt the weight of the gun in his hand, the tight squeeze in his chest; he forced the feeling down.

She lowered her eyes, released a nearly inaudible breath. "If I told you that you were wrong, would you believe me?" Her voice was flat, already defeated.

Jack saw her, the once idealized face so devoid of remorse, or resistance. She was suddenly younger, sweeping the hair from his forehead on a lazy afternoon; she was suddenly older, more withered and frailer than she'd ever allow. It saddened him, inexplicably, to think of her as anything other than dazzlingly fierce.

As quick as they'd come, the images were gone, and he was left staring into the face of a wife, a murderer, a dream. He raised the gun; his hand shook.

* * *

Marshall stands with his arm outstretched, file extended toward Jack. Silently, he reaches for the thin folder, sets it on the desk in front of him. Marshall takes a few steps forward and the sympathetic look in his eyes tells Jack that he hasn't missed the way the paper trembles as he pulls it from the file. 

"I don't know if you've seen a doctor, or if you're planning on seeing a doctor…but you need to do _something_, Mr. Bristow. The radiation, this isn't something that will go away on its own, it's—"

"I know that." Jack's voice is harsher than he'd expected it to be, harder than he'd have liked. He knows it's not Marshall's fault, doesn't blame him for not being able to save Sydney on his own. It's a responsibility that Jack's always been more than willing to shoulder alone, and he'd been prepared for the consequences the moment he started toward the reactor. The feeling that came over him during the fraction of a second it took him to make the decision isn't anything he'd be able to vocalize or explain; Jack's seen Marshall's joy when he speaks of his son, and this common ground between them is something Jack recognizes, something he appreciates.

Jack raises a still-shaking hand to his face, avoids Marshall's eyes as the trembling fingertips brush against his forehead. He shields his eyes from the light, the unrelenting brightness that never seems to have bothered him before. "I've been to the doctor. He hasn't told me anything I didn't already know."

Marshall struggles to keep his voice steady as he asks, "Was it an agency doctor, or a—"

"It's the doctor I've had for years." Jack pauses, drops his hand to his desk, scans the paper once again. "A few months, he told me." His voice is faint as he loses himself in thought. The cloudiness of his mind is new and unfamiliar and, more than anything, greatly unwelcome. Between the side effects of the radiation and the medication, Jack's thoughts are more scattered than he can ever remember them being: he sees Sydney across the briefing room table only to think of her as a little girl running to him, all arms and legs and gap-toothed smile; he catches sight of himself in the mirror, doesn't recognize the face; he dreams of his wife at night, mourns the empty reality that he wakes to find.

He knows he's no good to anyone like this, that he's soon going to be a liability to the team. But he's done this job so long, there's no part of his life that doesn't involve being in a room just like this one, fighting for the things he's always thought were important. At night, he lays awake and thinks of the things he'd do differently if he were given a second chance; it's a practice that causes more pain than the poison inside.

"If I die…There are things she should know, things I haven't told her." His voice is unusually soft, unusually gentle and Marshall is moved beyond words. He thinks of Mitchell, thinks of the way the bond was so immediate, so strong, so unconditional. He doesn't contemplate it often, whether for Jack's sake or his own, but he can't imagine what it's like to be a father who continually sees his child faced with danger, faced with the possibility of death. Looking at Jack, Marshall sees him suddenly older, suddenly far more frail than he'd ever believed he could be. "This business isn't as conducive to amicable family relations as one might think, Marshall, especially given the inner workings of _my_ family." His tone of voice is too light to be anything other than an attempt to disguise a deep sadness. Even to Marshall, who's only ever been on the edges of a relationship with Jack, the pain, both physical and emotional, is far too evident.

"There's still time, Mr. Bristow. I mean, not endless amounts of time, but there is _some_—"

"There isn't enough." Jack's voice catches on the last word, and he suddenly finds himself fighting back tears. He glances out the office window, sees Sydney staring intently at her computer screen. As she flicks a strand of hair from her eyes, Jack forces himself to look away. When he speaks, his voice is embarrassed and low, making it impossible to hide the emotion within. "There isn't enough time, Marshall. There couldn't possibly be."

The sadness of the statement brings tears to Marshall's eyes. He's not a field agent, has never really been faced with the life and death decisions of this business, with the hard calls other agents make every day; seeing the humanity within Jack, a man who he's idolized and revered, a man who's embodied the job for so long, catches something deep inside him, like nothing he has ever felt before. "Whatever you have to tell her, sir, you need to start now." Compassion seeps into his tone, and sympathy; Jack's eyes narrow at the sentiment, but necessity pushes Marshall forward, further than before. "The radiation is…it's killing you, and—"

Jack's hand is heavy, and suddenly steadier. He shuts the folder, composes himself, raises his eyes. Pushing the file away, Jack looks the younger man in the face. "This _sickness_"—Jack spits out the word, looks as if he can hardly stomach it, as if it's beneath him somehow—"this radiation…it's the least of the things that are killing me."

* * *

"You have to tell her, Jack." She'll prop herself up on one elbow, spread her hand across his chest. Strong fingers against stronger skin, but still…too soft to be Irina, too old to be Laura. Her eyes will reflect the only light in the room, still be too dark to read. 

He'll lift his eyes to the ceiling, cover her hand with his own. She'll be too warm, but he'll be too cold, far too cold. He'll imagine he could see his breath in the air if he could see much of anything at all. "Tell her what?"

There'll be something dark about her tone when she replies, something that will remind him of glass cells and half apologies. "Tell her everything," she'll whisper; she'll turn away.

Jack will shut his eyes, imagine Sydney's face as he tells her he's dying, that he's leaving her a life of lies and deception with no one to keep her safe. He won't be able to imagine how he'd balance the truths: the things he's done for her, kept from her, the shades of gray he's had to assume to keep her alive. Thinking of her alone in this world he's built for her, a world where the balance between light and dark is impossible at best, the sweat will bead on his forehead as he shivers. His hand will shake as he reaches across the bed, tremble as he feels nothing but empty space where his wife should be.

He'll turn his head, see Laura, see Irina, see no one. She won't be there; she never is.


End file.
